Into Chelsea I hurl myself, oars into water I have long since decided to drown in.

As I make my way away from the West Village, remember a friend from Berlin telling me the customs of shamanic people who hold that each part of a goat’s head contains a magick power. The eyes: power of mercy. Tongue: gift of calm. Brain: renewal of beauty and everlasting enchantment.

Somewhere a long the way I must have swallowed the coronet of a hippocampus and the lungs of a camouflaged insect, for I seem always to have held a power to transform myself into other people.

For tonight I become an Iranian real estate broker educated in London and made wealthy in New York selling Soho properties during the 1970’s. With his flagrant tongue and belligerent parade, I gain entrance into the profane and sacred world of art and luxury.

Kate Bush wailing in my head, ponder the weird wisdom or total madness a friend gives about the language of attraction. Make my way to 22nd and 10th. Meet Fujito dressed, as promised, in nothing but a white diaper.

We make our way from Empire diner. A dumb gallerina refuses me a cigarette. I bitch about it for days after. We go to an Asian gallery where mythical animals hunted and bound for the most bizarre currency have been turned into tires. The gallery stinks of wet branches and cheap wine.

Into a two story prison of sketches and paintings of elephant men and the muppets of a harlequin’s nightmare; butchers and bakers drafted from a time of blue beards and courtesans. I run into French twins, while naked girls crawl under polar bears into colored sand sepulchers. Some of us are drunk, others manic. Bulgarians are smiling, artists from Nepal are acting sanctimonious, toasts are being held in honor of nothing and moment.

My Russian philosopher arrives in time for us but too late for art. Outside we smoke cloves or cigarettes strange sailors blow smoke from filthy pipes. We have met Giselle Luminare a splendid French women of rare inner beauty dressed in white veils.

We pose for pictures, give each other new names. We meet Optometrists who dance with us in smiling streets. My Russian philosopher drives us safely out of reach.

I turn around and watch Chelsea as she undresses and lies down on her diamond-studded bed. She falls asleep with a patronizing smile on her too closed eyes. Someday she’ll love you for a short time, for now it is spring and we are dumb darling majesties who decided long ago to refuse every deceit offered by human dignity.